


To The Victor

by Gaffsie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Crack and Angst, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Objectification, Public Humiliation, terrible parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 16:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16727208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaffsie/pseuds/Gaffsie
Summary: In which FP and Sweet Pea are both well-meaning assholes, and Jughead is caught in the middle of a power struggle.





	To The Victor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=594508#cmt594508) kinkmeme prompt: "Jughead has at least two suitors, both of whom want to take his virginity. FP decides an arm wrestle is fair and whoever wins get his boy. Don't mind who the two suitors are but preferably one of them is Sweet Pea. Jughead finding the whole thing embarrassing and demeaning would be A+ (but no one really caring about his opinion lol)."
> 
> It started out as fun crack, but then it got semi-serious when I started thinking about the implications. Still crack though.

This night has all the makings of being _great_. The weather is balmy, and Jughead Jones is just in a t-shirt and jeans, gesturing animatedly as he and Sweet Pea are discussing the movie he and the junior serpents went to earlier. 

Truthfully, Sweet Pea doesn't really care all that much about the mis-en-scene of _Ready Player One_ (even though he quietly agrees that the movie was shit), but he does enjoy it when Jughead's in his element, the confidence with which he says stuff like,”Spielberg's reliance on the D.W. Griffith model of film-making is not only dishonest, it signifies the death knoll of Western cinema itself!”

He's just really cute like that, and Sweet Pea enjoys winding him up, watching his eyes sparkle in mock outrage when Sweet Pea professes to enjoy the acting of whats-his-face.

Toni and Fangs have left for the night, so it's just him and Jughead, crowded together at a small table in a semi-quiet corner of the Whyte Wyrm. Jughead keeps nudging his foot under the table, and after the third time it happens, Sweet Pea's pretty sure he's doing it on purpose.

He feels like they're working up to something, have been for a while; Jughead standing closer to him than before, smiling more. He's trying to take it slow though, not wanting to scare him off.

There's just one thing that could ruin this night, and, of course, he materializes at their table, like out of thin air. 

Hefner Hewlett, some punk-ass Serpent from Toledo. Newly moved in, and already the bane of Sweet Pea's existence. 

Sweet Pea knows some people think he's hot shit, with his blond hair and surfer looks, but to him he's been an annoyance from the start. 

He'd zeroed in on Jughead the minute he'd laid eyes on him, raking his eyes over him in a way that made Sweet Pea want to punch him in his stupid cleft chin. Jughead had been sweetly oblivious at first, but after a while even he had figured out that Hefner was flirting with him.

He hadn't _done_ anything about it, was the thing, and Sweet Pea might know it was because Jughead was hoping Hefner would just give up and go away, but he knew it would take more than that.

“Mind if I join you?” Hefner says, and doesn't even wait for an answer before snagging a chair and sitting down on it – backwards, like the true douche bag he is.

It's unbearable. Sweet Pea glares daggers, as Hefner worms his way into their conversation. Jughead is still pretending that he's not noticing Hefner's blatant flirting, steadfastly keeping their conversation centered on the movie they just saw.

Jughead's moved on to the ridiculousness of people being shiny and well-groomed in dystopias.

“How are they getting their hair gel, by scavenging _dump sites_?” He sounds incredulous. It's pretty charming.

Hefner ruins it, because of course he does.

“You'd manage, I think,” he says with a lazy smile. “You have great hair.”

He has to be either high or drunk, because Sweet Pea watches, like in slow motion, how he actually reaches out and _snags_ the beanie from Jughead's head. Jughead doesn't react until it's too late, and Hefner actually has the unmitigated gall to hold it away from him, like a fucking school yard bully.

“You look better without it,” Hefner says, twirling the beanie in his hand.

Sweet Pea sees _red_. He's up on his feet before he's even aware of it, tipping over both his chair and the table, one fist clenched in the collar of Hefner's shirt, one fist raised and ready to pummel the creep to death with, if necessary. Hefner is also gearing up for a fight, pushing at Sweet Pea's chest with both hands.

”Okay, that's enough!” FP Jones' voice breaks through the din. He strides up to Sweet Pea and Hefner, and pushes between them. Any other man would have gotten his arms broken for the trouble, but FP is his leader, and he's earned Sweet Pea's respect, and his obedience.

Sweet Pea and Hefner both back down, but Sweet Pea is still aching for a fight. Hefner is too, by the looks of him.

The whole bar has gotten quiet, everyone silently watching the tableau. Sweet Pea tosses his head, irritated.

“He should watch where he puts his hands,” Sweet Pea grits out.

“Yeah?” Hefner says. “Not like you've got a claim on him.” He's got a stupid fucking smirk on his face and Sweet Pea wants to punch it off.

“Actually, neither of you do,” Jughead says, voice raised and sarcastic, but they all ignore him.

FP ruffles his hair, and Jughead scowls. There's an affectionate smile on FP's face that he only ever seems to sport around his son. He raises his eyebrow meaningfully at Hefner, who actually _gulps_ , like the scared little bitch he is, and practically shoves Jughead's beanie into his father's hand. Jughead snatches it up and puts it back on his head. 

As much as Sweet Pea enjoys the sight of Jughead without his dumb beanie on, his fluffy Disney prince hair never seeming to fall victim to hat-hair, it's still a relief. Taking his security blanket away from him like that is just... wrong. 

“Why don't the two of you settle this like men?” FP suggests. He puts his arm around Jughead's shoulders. If anything, Jughead's scowl deepens.

“A good old-fashioned arm-wrestle. Winner gets Jughead.”

Their audience murmurs approvingly, impressed with FP's solid leadership skills.

“Dad!” Jughead exclaims, sounding scandalized. He pushes away from FP's grip, and, indulgently, FP lets him. 

”I am not a prize to be won!” His arms are crossed over his chest, and Sweet Pea admires the way it makes his biceps bulge under his tight t-shirt. The way he's glaring daggers at Sweet Pea and Hefner is really cute, especially with that angry blush on his cheeks, and Sweet Pea gets a little lost in his own head, imaging that pouty mouth wrapped around his dick. So sue him, he's a teenage boy.

“Of course you're not, son,” FP says. He gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

He turns to Sweet Pea and Hefner and claps his hands together, all business. “Now, boys, you in?”

Sweet Pea looks at Hefner. Hefner looks at Sweet Pea. 

They both nod.

“Excellent,” FP says.

“Does no one care what I want?” Jughead asks, sounding plaintive, but FP's already striding away to an empty table by the bar, Sweet Pea and Hefner hot on his heels.

FP pushes down the half-empty beer bottles and the over-full ashtray on the floor, and Sweet Pea and his nemesis sits down on opposite sides of the table.

FP looks around and, noticing Jughead still standing in the corner, arms crossed in mute disapproval, he shakes his head. “Get over here,” he says, exasperated. 

“He's always been such a drama queen,” he mumbles, with a no small amount of affection, as Jughead shuffles over to them.

Once Jughead's close enough, FP grabs him by his biceps and herds him to the table. 

“Here's the deal. Winner gets Jughead. Loser backs down, finds another twink-”

“Hey!” Jughead's blushing cheeks are fire-engine red now, and the color has spread down his neck. Sweet Pea is willing to bet that, if he were to pull off his shirt, he'd find that the blush would be going all the way down his chest. He hopes he'll get to find out for sure. 

Hefner is also looking at Jughead, and when Sweet Pea notices he _growls_. Deal or no deal, he'll fucking destroy the creep if he touches Jughead again.

Jughead's startled blue eyes meets Sweet Pea's for a second, and if possible, his face gets even redder. He ducks his head, long eye-lashes brushing against his cheeks. He's biting his lip now, those endearing front teeth no doubt leaving indents, and it's a really fucking distracting sight.

FP raises his voice,“-finds another twink to deflower. No more fighting.”

“Fine,” Sweet Pea says. He – and everyone else in this bar - knows he's gonna win this anyway. He's not reigning Serpent arm-wrestling champion for nothing. Hefner doesn't know that though, being a recent transfer. Judging by the worried little glances Jughead keeps shooting him, he doesn't know it either, and Sweet Pea marvels that he actually thinks his dad is willing to gamble him away. Marvels even more at Jughead _letting_ him.

Jesus, it's no wonder FP is giving Sweet Pea his blessing. That kind of obedience could so easily be exploited. Sweet Pea would love to do a little exploiting of his own, but at least he's got Jughead's best interests at heart. Doesn't just see him as a piece of ass, the way Hefner clearly does.

They get ready, elbows on the table, grabbing at each other's hand. Sweet Pea grins at Hefner, all teeth, and Hefner grins right back. The misplaced confidence is almost cute. 

“Begin,” FP says, and Sweet Pea fucking goes for it.

Hefner's grin slides off his face real quick. Neither of them are holding back, but Sweet Pea is the stronger one, and Hefner's figured that out, at last. Still not giving up the fight though, and Sweet Pea can respect that.

Half a minute is all it takes, and then Sweet Pea's slammed down Hefner's hand on the table with a victory yell, pushing his chair to the floor and standing up with his hands raised.

Their audience cheers, and FP clasps his shoulder.

“You better treat him right,” he says, low, for Sweet Pea's ears only. Then he bends down to Hefner, pulls him up to his feet. Hefner looks pissed, but when FP meets his eyes, he gives him a nod. 

He's keeping the deal then. 

FP slings a companionable arm around his shoulder and drags him off to the bar, no doubt to buy him a commiseration beer, and to give Sweet Pea and Jughead some privacy.

Sweet Pea turns to Jughead. He's still standing where FP left him. Arms crossed over his stomach, unsure. His face is still red, but the blush has receded somewhat. Good thing too, Sweet Pea thinks, because he looked like he was gonna have an aneurysm any second.

Someone in the crowd wolf-whistles, someone else hoots, and Jughead doesn't seem to be able to meet Sweet Pea's eyes.

“Wanna get out of here?” Sweet Pea asks. 

Jughead looks torn, no doubt debating what's worse; going home with Sweet Pea as his spoil of war, or staying in the Whyte Wyrm and having everyone look at him and still know that's what he _is_. 

He glances at their audience, seeing all their expectant faces, and blanches. It makes him stand a little straighter, raise his chin, letting his hands fall to his sides.

Makes him meet Sweet Pea's gaze head on, almost like a challenge.

“Your place,” he says, a little nastily. “My dad's got the bedroom.”

Sweet Pea likes his bravado, always has. 

They get outside, and Jughead doesn't hesitate when Sweet Pea thrusts his helmet at him. Just puts it on, and climbs up behind Sweet Pea on his bike. Sweet Pea doesn't even have to tell him to hold on tight. His front is warm against Sweet Pea's back, and his arms goes around Sweet Pea's waist like they belong there. 

It's a short ride, and then they're at Sweet Pea's trailer. If the Jones trailer is small, his is minuscule, but he's got a bed, a bathroom and a small kitchenette, and that's enough.

The nice thing about being with a south-sider is that there's no judgement. Sweet Pea's been with his fair share of north-side princesses (and even one or two princes), but experience has taught him not to bring them home. The pity he can always see in their eyes is a real boner killer.

He's pretty sure Jughead won't pity him. Once, when FP was really in his cups, he'd admitted that his kid had chosen to sleep in a projection booth over living with his old man, so Sweet Pea figures this gotta be a step up from that, at least.

He unlocks the door and ushers Jughead in, turns on the light.

Jughead takes in the place at a glance, curious, but not judgemental.

He just says, “nice place,” and that's that.

“You know we don't have to do anything, right?” Sweet Pea says, because, seriously, that's not what this is about, and it's really important to him that Jughead gets that.

“Really now?” Jughead says. “Because I'm pretty sure you just _won_ the right to do what you want to me.” 

He sounds bitter and tired, and Sweet Pea doesn't like that one bit, so he steps up to him, gently clasps his face in his hands. Jughead's breathing kind of hard, and his eyes shifts away from Sweet Pea's, stubbornly refusing to meet his.

“Hey,” he says, coaxing and gentle. “You like me, don't you, Jones?”

Jughead presses his lips together, flat. His mouth is down-turned at the corners, nose flaring.

Sweet Pea realizes that he's trying to not cry, pretty much tensing his entire face in an effort to keep his eyes from tearing up.

Well, shit. 

Sweet Pea's not really used to dealing with tears. Sometimes, when he stabs someone, they cry, but then it's usually well-deserved and not his fucking problem. It's different when it's Jughead, who he actually likes, and wants to be happy.

He tries a hug, squeezing his arms around Jughead's body, his cheek pressed against Jughead's hair. He gets some of it in his mouth, but that's okay.

Jughead sort of... gasps, all quiet-like. His arms snake around Sweet Pea, hands clinging to his jacket, and Sweet Pea can feel that he's shaking.

Sweet Pea tries rubbing circles on his back, because that's supposed to be comforting, right? It was a long time since anyone bothered to do it to him, but he remembers that much.

It goes on for a while. It unnerves Sweet Pea a bit how quiet Jughead's being. He can feel his shoulder getting wet from his tears, but he's hardly making any sound at all.

Finally, he seems to regain some control, because he pushes Sweet Pea's arms away and takes a small step back. He wipes furiously at his face, trying to get rid of the tear-tracks and snot. Can't hide his red-rimmed eyes though.

Maybe, Sweet Pea thinks, he could have handled this situation a little better.

“You know-” he says, and his voice is raspy, but sure. Not shaking. Sweet Pea thinks that Jughead waited to speak until he was certain he could do it without crying.

“- I do like you,” and he smiles a little bitterly. “But you and _dad_ , and let's not even get into how fucked up it was that my _dad_ called me a twink in front of his _gang_ and made it look like I was a bargaining chip-”

He throws his hands up, in disgust, shakes his head like he can make the thought disappear.

“You took away my choice. Publicly. You made me into an _object_.”

He peers at Sweet Pea, eyes narrowed, head tilted.

“Apart from how fucking shitty that made me feel; what does that do to my standing with those people?”

Sweet Pea knows his answer isn't going to make him happy, but Jughead deserves some honesty.

“Not a whole lot,” he says, and watches Jughead flinch. He plows on anyway, wanting to get all the nasty parts into the open.

“Everyone already thinks you're a virgin twink.” He shrugs. “Putting on a leather jacket doesn't change that. You've made it this far by being FP Jones' son. That gives you some protection.”

Jughead's crossing his arms again, hugging himself. But he looks like he's processing what Sweet Pea's saying. He's frowning, and Sweet Pea can practically hear all the gears in his mind whirring.

“ _I've_ given you some protection. But with Hefner-”

“I could have handled him,” Jughead snaps, and Sweet Pea actually smiles a little at him, at this self-righteous boy who's at once so smart and so. Fucking. Dumb.

“He wouldn't have let you deflect forever. Either you could fight him, or I could, and I didn't really cherish the idea of you being beaten to a pulp.”

Jughead raises his head, gives him a searching look.

“So why didn't you? Fight him, I mean.”

Sweet Pea shrugs again. “FP stopped me. Probably knows something about Hefner that I don't.”

“Why do you say that?” He's got his sleuthing face on now, his fist raised thoughtfully to his mouth.

Sweet Pea snorts. “The way he treated you? FP's fucked up people for less than that before.”

Jughead actually looks quietly pleased at that.

“This way, you're safe from Hefner, and from anyone else.”

“Because I'm _yours_.” He says it softly, but that nasty edge is back in his voice.

Sweet Pea takes a chance, reaches out and grabs his hand. He gives it a soft squeeze, and Jughead squeezes back.

“Doesn't have to be a bad thing,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “If you want to, I could be yours.”

Jughead studies him, eyes narrowed.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “If I walked out that door right now, what would you tell everyone tomorrow?”

Sweet Pea smirks, tugs at his hand so Jughead practically falls into him.

He brushes away that tempting wavy strand of hair that somehow always manage to escape his beanie, and bends down a little, so his mouth is just by Jughead's ear.

“I'd tell them you're a screamer.”

“Okay,” he says, voice a little shaky, but satisfied. “Okay.”

And it is.

**Author's Note:**

> This all started with the Aladdin quote.


End file.
